I go to my bed and pull the black box out from under it. I shiver at the sight of my name marking this as mine. I lift the lid.
As my fingers explore the sequence of black silicone plugs, each one bigger than the last, those words roll through my head.
Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
As in, punish me for noncompliance? Or hurt me because … My fingers linger on the largest plug. It’ssobig. I can’t imagine that inside me.
My imaginings have never been so specific; they’ve never had asize. They’re about a feeling. They’re only partially physical because you can’t reallyimaginesomething physical.
Is this what I wanted? For it to be real? Yes, but …
I close my eyes to shut out my daylit apartment, to shut out my thoughts about who I am at work, aboutwhatI am there.
Blindly, I reach into the box.
***
Fuck, I have to hurry now. I don’t have time to get used to the plug. I have to rush out of my apartment and down the stairs. I’m in such a hurry, in fact, that it’s not until I burst through the door and out into broad daylight that I remember that someone is out there, watching.
I slam to a halt at the top of the steps. My gaze sweeps one way then the other. There are plenty of people and cars, but no one seems to be looking at me.
My phone vibrates. I jolt and reach inside my jacket, fumbling my phone out.
Unknown:Get moving. You’ll be late for work.
Jesus Christ. I sway, dizzied by the adrenaline flooding my body. I rush down the steps, biting back a cry at the way the plug shifts inside me. I can’t help clenching on it. I can’t help that my cock is hard.
I hurry along the sidewalk. I try to jog, but I can’t handle it with the plug. My erection gets so bad that I have to stop and adjust it. I do it as discreetly as I can, turning toward a building, pulling my tip up behind my waistband.
Is he watching he?
Iseveryonewatching me?
I feel like I’m on display. I feel terrified, electrified, wide awake.
I arrive at the bodega shaky and sweaty. Emmy gives me a look but doesn’t say anything as I breeze past her to yank off my jacket and throw on my apron. I tie it at my waist and look down to see if my erection is obvious.
It’s not. Thank god. ButIknow it’s there. I feel it, the ache and stiffness, the edge. I feel the plug taking up space inside me.
I don’t know if I can handle all day like this. I’m too aware of myself, of my body. I’m not used to being awake like this. I’m not used to feeling sexual outside of my very private spaces.
I’m not a virgin or anything. I have tried things. Clubs. Hookups. But it’s been years because it’s always so unsatisfying and I’m always embarrassed after. I’m always reaching for something that’s not there. I try to make myself believe that I’m getting what I need, but I’m not. I’m just acting.
This, now, is a different kind of acting. Maybe it always has been. As I struggle to play the role of myself, it feels artificial. It confuses me.
At one point, Emmy asks if I’m okay. I’m embarrassed, of course, but I find, to my surprise, that I enjoy lying to her. I like that I have a secret.
I like, too, the fantasy that plays out in my head as I’m sweeping the candy aisle. I’ve never had fantasies at work. I’ve never allowed myself to. But what’s happening to my body overrides my control.
It starts with the beautiful man who spoke to me yesterday, the man I thought about last night when I made myself come.
Show me, he said.
I shiver at the remembered words. I imagine that he meant the plug, that he wants to see it, lodged inside me. I imagine refusing so that he grabs me, pins me to the shelves, and yanks my pants down to see.
I’m hanging onto the broom, my body wracked with arousal, when someone walks into the aisle. At first, I think I’m imagining that it’s him. I blink, expecting the image to vanish, for him to be shorter, plainer, someone ordinary.
But he’s not.
